Lost in Paris

by Elizabeth Thompson

  Batting my way through cobwebs, I walk over to one of the windows and pull back the heavy velvet curtains, stirring up a cloud of dust that makes me cough. It’s impossible to tell the color of the worn drapery, but the thin slices of early-evening light that stream in through the shutters on the tall, arched windows and bounce off a gilded mirror across the room suggest it might have once been burgundy or eggplant. I manage to secure the drape in place with a thick tasseled tieback that’s connected to the wall, even though part of the fringe disintegrates in my hand. Then I open the wooden shutter and turn around to behold a wonderland.

  Underneath ash-like dust and gossamer cobwebs lie the remnants of someone’s life. There’s a Sleeping Beauty–like air to the place. Everything appears to be suspended in time, waiting for someone to return. A clock on the wall is stopped at 2:47. A coat hangs on the coatrack. A folded umbrella lists to the side in the patinated copper stand. Men’s shoes sit by the door.

  Across the foyer, an ornate mirror is situated above a wooden table. Cobwebs so thick they look like gray cotton candy are caught in the scrolls and crevices.

  “Madams, the place appears to be intact and uninhabited, oui?” says Levesque, who is hovering in the doorway, covering his mouth and nose with his gloved hand. “However, I fear it is not safe to breathe in the dust. I am happy to help you arrange a cleaning service to make the place hospitable.”

  When neither Marla nor I answer him, he adds, “Had I a key, I would have had it cleaned before you arrived.”

  The apartment isn’t very large. Beyond the foyer and the living room, there’s a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen I can’t wait to explore.

  “That is very nice of you, Monsieur Levesque,” I say. I hadn’t even considered the dust and the mess. I was more concerned about walking into a nest of trespassers. But, even though it’s filthy, I’m glad I got to see it just like this.

  He nods. “If you don’t mind, I will wait for you in the hall.”

  “Certainly,” I say. “We won’t be much longer.”

  Despite its compact floor plan, the place has high ceilings decorated with ornate medallions and gorgeous crown molding.

  They don’t make one-bedrooms like this anymore, I think to myself.

  Even covered in dust and cobwebs, the place is magical. It’s fancier and more tasteful than I had imagined. Most important, after all these years, the place still has a soul.

  I spy what looks like correspondence on a small writing desk by one of the windows and make my way toward it. The dust is making me tear up. I know Levesque is right—this probably isn’t healthy—but I can’t tear myself away. I have to find something before we leave—some piece of evidence that proves without a doubt that Ivy lived here.

  What I thought was correspondence turns out to be unused stationery. Situated next to an old-fashioned ink pot and dipping pen, it is strewn over the surface of the desk as if someone would be back to tidy it up. There’s also an ornamental hair comb, a couple of books, and a pair of ladies’ gloves on the desk.

  It strikes me that people spend a lifetime gathering and accumulating objects. In the end, the person leaves, but all the things that were once so important are left behind like detritus.

  I lift the gloves off the table to reveal an outline of where they had been. Holding my breath, I drop my scarf from my face and rub my forefinger over the gray and brittle leather to reveal monogrammed letters: IB. Ivy Braithwaite? My heart kicks into high gear. I glance around, feeling guilty, like I’m at a museum and I’m messing with an exhibit I’m not supposed to touch.

  Levesque is waiting outside the doorway, looking at his phone.

  We probably should leave until we can get someone to help us get the dust under control. Ugh, there are probably hundreds of spiders in here. This is the point where I would usually shudder and run, but my feet are planted as my gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the wonder.

  “Monsieur Levesque, may I take these with me?” I hold up the gloves.

  “But of course. Everything in the apartment belongs to you and Madame. Take whatever you like.”

  Realizing suddenly that I’ve lost track of an uncharacteristically quiet Marla, I guess she’s probably in the bedroom.

  “We will only be a couple more minutes,” I call to Levesque.

  “Please take all the time you need.”

  I feel bad. I should tell him he’s free to go, but I don’t want him to leave. My French is elementary at best and given that no one has entered this place in decades, if the neighbors call the police or come out to question us, I’d feel better having him here to help explain our case.

  “Let me get my mother and we’ll go,” I offer.

  “As you like.” He returns his attention to his phone.

  I’m moving silently, reverently, through the dust-covered living room when Marla shrieks from beyond the open door.

  “Oh my God! Hannah! Come here. Quickly!”

  * * *

  THE PAINTINGS ARE GORGEOUS. There are six of them displayed museum style across one of the bedroom walls. Marla has wiped away the dust on one to reveal a study of a nude woman lying on a bed. She is covered somewhat by bedsheets and looks as if she’s staring into the eyes of a lover.

  Gazing at the painting, I feel as if I’ve walked in on an intimate exchange. A lover’s promise. Or perhaps the sweet nothings whispered after a night of pleasure.

  The painting is quite lovely, if a little risqué. Marla’s gaze is fixed on it. Her expression is horrified. I don’t understand her stunned reaction. With her history, she’s no blushing virgin.

  As if reading my mind, she whispers, “Hannah, don’t you recognize her?”

  I glance at my mother, hoping for a hint.

  “Why are you whispering?” I ask.

  “It’s Granny Ivy,” Marla hisses, her voice still hushed. She nods at the painting.

  I take a closer look and suddenly everything kaleidoscopes into perspective. Pictures of my great-grandmother as a young woman come to mind and I see that, yes, indeed, the beautiful woman on the bed does resemble Ivy. With her strawberry-blonde hair, she sort of looks like me, too. Like a mix of Marla and me—each of our very best features combined to create one beautiful face.

  I turn to my gobsmacked mother. “Obviously you’re not the only one in the family who had a wild streak in her younger years.”

  “I guess not. At least I came by it honestly, but it’s just…” She shakes her head, at a loss for words.

  “Why are you so shocked by this?” I ask.

  I’m wondering why I’m not surprised by it. Maybe because it’s the first clue as to why Ivy never mentioned much about her life in Paris. Was she a painter’s model?

  I find the possibility utterly thrilling.

  As I begin to study the rest of the paintings on the wall, trying to see through the foggy layers of dust, something at the base of the bedside table catches my eye. The cobwebs are thick in that cranny, and I glance around for something to use as a swab.

  “Is everything okay, mesdames?” Monsieur Levesque’s voice startles me. He’s standing in the bedroom’s threshold, covering his nose and mouth with his hand.

  “The woman in the painting,” I say. “She’s a relative.”

  Marla scowls and moves in front of the portrait as if she is protecting Ivy’s dignity. Her choppy movements have stirred up a cloud that sends Levesque into a coughing fit.

  He leaves the room.

  I find a grimy newspaper on the bureau and use it to fight my way through the webs to what looks like a small, leather-bound book.

  When I hold it in my hands, I see it’s a diary, and I decide to take it with me.

  “Marla, come on; we really should go. We need to check into the hotel and we’ve taken up enough of Monsieur Levesque’s time.”

  “I’m not ready to go.” Her voice is petulant.

  “Well, then you can stay here by yourself because I’m leaving. We can come back tomorrow and start cle
aning.”

  Holding the gloves and the little book close, I leave Marla rooted to her spot and join Monsieur Levesque in the hallway.

  “I hope all this dust hasn’t given you an asthma attack,” I say.

  He smiles. “Everything is fine. Though I should make you aware that I must travel out of town tomorrow. I shall turn you over to the capable hands of my partner, Gabriel Cerny. Here is his card. If you’d like, his assistant will arrange for a cleaning service to meet you at the apartment in the morning. You will be able to better assess the place once it is clean.”

  “Merci,” I say. “That would be very helpful.”

  He nods and watches as I pull some tissue from my purse, wrap up the dusty gloves and diary, and tuck them into the outer pocket of my suitcase for safe keeping.

  “Also, I realized we must check on the annuity that has been covering the taxes all these years. The amount may have been different than what is needed to cover the cost of the fees.”

  My stomach dips. Great, just what we need. More expenses. Something tells me that if there are property taxes due, the government might not be as lenient about when we pay them as they are about the inheritance taxes.

  I fear that we might need to start thinking about putting the place on the market. Because there’s no way even with the proceeds of the sale of Gram’s house that we’ll have enough money to pay for added expenses.

  It seems a shame to sell the apartment. If Granny Ivy had kept it, there must’ve been a reason. It must’ve meant something to her.

  Then again, if she wanted so badly to keep it a secret, maybe the prospect of selling the place was more of a burden than just letting it rot.

  Marla joins us in the hallway. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”

  I’m embarrassed by her brusque tone and feel compelled to cover for her.

  “Again, Monsieur Levesque, thank you for accommodating us.”

  Maybe his associate Monsieur Cerny will be able to point us in the direction of a real estate agent, and preferably someone who speaks our language.

  I feel so out of my league. I hope someone doesn’t spot a couple of unsuspecting American dopes and take us for a ride. Of course, we could always call Patrick Sterling for help.

  Cha-ching, cha-ching. But investing in legal advice would mean protecting ourselves. Better safe than sorry.

  My head is spinning and my stomach rumbles. I realize I’m starving. Marla and I never had the chance to eat lunch, and the five-mile walk made me work up an appetite.

  “Monsieur Levesque, could you recommend a good restaurant for dinner?” I ask after we exit the building.

  I wonder if I should invite him to join us.

  “I do not know what type of food you prefer,” he says. “Sometimes Americans, they do not enjoy what is French.”

  “Not all Americans subsist on fast food,” Marla snaps.

  “It’s been a long, emotional day,” I say apologetically. “We both need a good dinner. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Thank you for the invitation, but I am expected at home. There is a bistro not too far from here, Café Breton. You might find it satisfactory. I recommend that you order the plat du jour.”

  “And what on earth is a plat du jour?” Marla sounds suspicious, as if she’s caught him trying to trick us into ordering horse meat or something equally offensive.

  “It means the specialty of the day, Marla,” I say.

  Levesque nods. “Oui. It is the finest, freshest ingredients that the chef can locate at the market that morning. From those items he will build the dish. You cannot go wrong.”

  Levesque tips his hat, bids us adieu, and slips off into the twilight.

  The two of us stand there looking at each other; then we turn our faces to the building, staring at the row of windows on the second floor that now belongs to us.

  A cold wind whips up some dried leaves that had been resting at our feet. Marla and I both pull our scarves tighter around our necks.

  “I don’t understand why you had to hurry us out like that,” Marla quips. “You could’ve given me some time since it was our first glimpse of this place.”

  “You’re welcome to go back up there,” I say. “We have the key. But frankly, I don’t know that it will do you any good to breathe in more dust.”

  Just the thought of it makes my lungs heave. Personally, I need to digest everything that’s happened today before I make any more discoveries.

  It was a lot.

  “Let’s go,” I say. “Tomorrow is another day.”

  “I know tomorrow is another day and the day after tomorrow will be yet another one, but I wanted this moment.”

  I glance around to see who might be watching the start of a full-on Marla tantrum as we walk away in the direction of the bistro that Levesque suggested.

  “You’re hungry and cranky,” I say. “Let’s get you something to eat. Then we’ll go back to the hotel, wash off this dust, and get a good night’s sleep.”

  The first thing I plan to do when we get back to the hotel is crack open the diary. My gut tells me it might hold the answers to a few burning questions.

  June 1927

  Paris, France

  Dear Diary,

  I’ve made a new discovery. The best way to distract myself from not having a job is to get out of the apartment. Not only does it put space between Helen and me, but exploring also reminds me that opportunities could be around every corner. I certainly won’t find a new situation moping around the apartment, trying to ignore Helen’s judging glances.

  Today, I set out with no particular destination in mind. Soon, I found myself lingering in the Jardin des Tuileries. With its rows of manicured lime and elm trees and grassy areas offset by gravel paths, the formal garden sits between the Louvre and the place de la Concorde. Since the Tuileries has become one of my favorite places in all of Paris, I’ve learned a little bit about its history. Did you know that it’s the oldest garden in the city? And long before it became a public park, the Tuileries was the site of Catherine de’ Medici’s royal palace, but the palais was destroyed during the Paris Commune, long after the queen consort’s death.

  I sat on a bench in the midst of the beauty, squinted my eyes, and tried to imagine what it was like when the palais stood stalwart and proud. For a glorious moment, I escaped my poverty and pretended I was royalty—or at least a member of the court.

  It was all in good fun.

  Speaking of fun, I made a new friend today. As I sat there, the sweetest little brown dog ran up and plopped himself onto my feet. When I bent to scratch behind his ears, he looked up at me with the most soulful black eyes that seemed to say, Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking for you. But all too soon his owners, a girl and a boy, whistled for him from across the park. He licked my hand and scampered off to a joyous reunion. Someday when I’m settled, I should quite like to have a dog of my own.

  By that time, I was so hungry my stomach was growling. I walked along the rue de Rivoli toward home, stopping along the way to admire Joan of Arc’s statue in place des Pyramides. After communing with her and Catherine de’ Medici, I felt as if I had been bolstered by two strong women.

  Even so, by the time I reached Maxim’s on rue Royale, it was all I could do to keep from pressing my nose against the window of the fancy restaurant. Despite my dirty shoes, dusty from the park’s flint and gravel paths, I approached the front doors, with head held high, and pretended I was arriving for a meal.

  That gave me the most wonderful idea. I couldn’t afford a sumptuous meal at Maxim’s, but I could certainly endeavor to cook something delicious for myself. Helen would be out with Luc by the time I returned home. So as I walked I thought about what I could cook that would be fit for a queen but wouldn’t empty my peasant-sized pocketbook. I was so lost in thought I must have taken a wrong turn.

  Suddenly, I found myself… lost. As I stood, turning in circles, I was taken by the most impressive building. It was a church, but it looked
more Roman temple than Parisian cathedral. I was desperate to step into the magnificent structure, but I would have to return another time. Darkness was falling. Not only did I need to find my way home, but I had to find a market and purchase my dinner.

  As I walked away vowing to return, I contemplated what kind of soup would be fit for Catherine de’ Medici and Joan of Arc….

  Nine

  January 2, 2019—8:00 p.m.

  Normandy Le Chantier, 1st arrondissement

  Paris, France

  As we settle into the hotel, a light snow begins to fall outside. The heavy flakes are collecting on the windows of our third-floor room.

  In true Parisian fashion, dinner was marked by lovely food and impatient service. Afterward the temperature plummeted so much that we hailed a taxi to take us back to the hotel.

  It was just as well; we’re both exhausted and ready to call it a day. The room is nice. Very old-world French with the comfort of two full-sized beds and an en suite bath. The hotel offered a discount since I’m in the hospitality industry.

  “Do you want to shower first or can I?” Marla asks, standing in the bathroom doorway clutching her toiletry case. She’s already staked her claim, but at least she’s trying to be polite.

  “Go ahead.”

  I’m happy for her to go first because I’m dying to pull out the diary. I’m not trying to keep it from her. However, I do want to get a first look without her reading over my shoulder.

  I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that the apartment was once Ivy’s home. The deed doesn’t lie, but I can’t reconcile the great-grandmother I knew with the woman in those paintings—with the person who lived… here.

  In Paris.

  It’s weird to think that Granny Ivy might have had a secret life, that she navigated this city and made it her own. But the burning question is why she hid it all these years.

  After Marla barricades herself in the bathroom, I retrieve the small book from my suitcase.